


the wind, the mountain, and the sea

by theMightyPen



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Courtship, F/M, Fluff, I Blame Tumblr, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 18:26:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15418938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/pseuds/theMightyPen
Summary: A mountain will not bend. Neither, it seems, will Lothiriel of Dol Amroth.(A mountain can fall, though, and so can she.)





	the wind, the mountain, and the sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heckofabecca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/gifts).



* * *

 

Contrary to popular belief, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth isn’t opposed to being courted.

Well, perhaps that’s not entirely true--it’s not the courting she takes issue with, necessarily, but rather the men _doing_ the courting. As one of the most eligible high-born ladies in the entirety of the country, lords from all over Gondor have taken an interest in her since she was scarcely sixteen. Pimple-faced second-sons, bearded, round men old enough to be her father, and yes, even a few of her brothers’ handsomest--and vainest--friends-- have all wanted to pay court to the Princess of Dol Amroth.

And therein lies the problem--it’s the title they want, all that power and connection and wealth. Not Lothiriel, herself.

“Do try to look a little less like you’re on the verge of clawing someone’s eyes out, Loth,” Amrothos drawls, nudging her subtly with his elbow behind the wide sleeve of her dress. “Ada will not like it.”

“Perhaps Ada should consider how little _I_ like being paraded around like a brood-mare,” she grumbles, mood lightening a little when her brother snorts. “Even you must agree that this display is obnoxious, Amrothos.”

“Oh, must I?” He asks. “I’ll remind you it would hardly be necessary if you had just accepted Caranor’s suit--”

“Caranor is _your_ friend,” she snaps. “He sought to court me out of duty to you, not for my own sake.”

“Is that so wrong?” Amrothos asks. “He would make a good husband to you, Lothiriel. He is not cruel, nor strict, and his family’s keep is not so far from Dol Amroth--”

“And he does not love me,” she interrupts. Her brothers--all three of them, much as she loves them--have never understood her desire for such a thing in a marriage. Arranged marriages have existed in Gondor for as long as such things have been recorded.

Their parents were arranged. Uncle Denethor and Aunt Findulas had been arranged. Elphir and his wife, the lovely and wonderfully kind--though certainly that was not guaranteed, in a wife chosen by one’s family--Geldis? Also arranged.

Despite all of that tradition--or perhaps, because of it--it is an idea Lothiriel abhors beyond all others. Let her remain unmarried and childless, like Aunt Ivriniel, rather than married to a man who cares little for what lives in her heart, in her mind.

As if on cue, the opposite of the kind of man she could even begin to endure appears--Lord Iaeon, of Ethering. He has--or rather had--been a longtime favorite of her uncle. Shrewd, arrogant, and irritatingly handsome, he has made it plain on multiple occasion on how the joining of their houses would be “beneficial for the kingdom”. To her father’s “political advantage”. How Lothiriel, as his wife, would want for nothing, in his family’s lovely home filled with all the pretty things a lady of good breeding could want. The unspoken ‘as long as she behaved’ was always there as well, giving a bitter tinge to his words that most other ladies would call “charming”.

 _A cage is what he seeks to put me into_ , Lothiriel thinks as he greets Amrothos, asking his permission to escort her around the room, _a gilded one, but a cage all the same_.

“Lady Lothiriel,” he murmurs, voice smooth as silk as she unwillingly slips her arm through his, “Minas Tirith’s court has suffered the absence of your beauty for far too long.”

Lothiriel bites back her retort of _perhaps the War for Middle Earth had something to do with that_ for the much more demure, “Surely, Lord Iaeon, you do not expect me to believe that a court with an Elf as its Queen lacks for beauty?”

Iaeon’s lips twist--it’s clear he had expected her to be flattered. Flustered, even, and perhaps...embarrassed? Hm. It would seem he had taken her last dismissal somewhat to heart.

“For all her beauty, there is something that makes you very different from our Elven Queen,” he says, regaining his composure.

“My sharp tongue?” Lothiriel offers, before she can stop herself.

“You, my lady, are not yet wed,” Iaeon says, as if she hasn’t spoken, “which makes your beauty a much more...accessible sort.”

Lothiriel can feel her cheeks flush pink--how dare he imply such a thing! “Wed or not, my lord,” she says, aware of Elphir’s watchful gaze from his place at the king’s table, “my beauty and my heart remain, as ever, out of your reach.”

The mask of cool courtier slips, just for a moment, and she glimpses the cruelty, the malice she has long suspected of him, underneath. He jerks her, ungently, behind a nearby column. “It will not always remain so. You cannot refuse suitors forever, my lady, no matter how you would like to. And I have always liked the long game.”

“Let me give you a piece of Dol Amrothian wisdom, my lord,” Lothiriel hisses, all attempts at politeness gone, “no matter how the wind howls, the mountain will not bow to it.”

The sudden pinch of his thumb and forefinger around her chin is startling, but she refuses to be cowed, even as he glares down at her, his usually blank grey eyes startlingly fierce. “You should be more careful in who you choose to offend, girl--”

“I would suggest,” comes a deep, familiar voice, hot with anger, “that you let go of the princess.”

Lord Iaeon flinches, releasing her, and Lothiriel turns to meet the towering rage of the King of Rohan. She is, abruptly, very, very glad it is not directed at her.

“King Eomer,” Ieaon starts, “the Princess and I were having a private discussion--”

“In the Mark,” Eomer interrupts, stepping closer with visible menace in every line of his long frame, “a man does not lay hands on a woman for anything other than a kind reason.” At this, he fixes the other man with a deadly serious look. “And that did not look very kind, to my eyes.”

Seemingly realizing that Lothiriel’s sudden defender is both a king and considerably taller than him, Lord Ieaon stutters some semblance of an excuse before all but scuttling away.

 _Like the cockroach he is_ , Lothiriel thinks, unkindly, before offering Eomer a rueful smile. “I could have handled him, you know,” she says. “This is not the first time Iaeon and I have done battle.”

“Somehow,” Eomer mutters, “that does not surprise me.”

Lothiriel frowns. “The point remains: I did not need you to rescue me, Eomer. He is not the first suitor who has not taken my rejection well, and I doubt he will be the last.”

Eomer’s eyes--dark brown, so different from Eowyn’s green, but every bit as piercing and doubly, if she’s honest, arresting--meet hers. “Is that what that oaf was trying to do? Court you?”

“In his way,” Lothiriel concedes. “He has never considered in what manner I, or any other lady for that matter, might prefer to be courted--”

Her voice cuts off in surprise as Eomer’s hand--absurdly large, warm, and calloused, in a way so foreign to Gondor’s lords--cradles hers. He’s lifted it to his mouth before she can collect her thoughts. The kiss he presses to her palm is--is--

Well, it’s _warm_ , above all else, sending a strange shiver along her arm, into her stomach, but confusing and _irritating_ as well--had she just not been talking about how little she enjoys this sort of courtship? An amused snort to her left has her looking over sharply, to meet--oh, Valar--Aragorn, her _king_ ’s, amused stare.

“What,” oh, and she hates that her voice has gone breathy, airy, because she _should_ not have liked such a gesture, she has never enjoyed it before now, “was that supposed to be?”

Eomer lifts his head, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “An alternative form of courtship.”

She rolls her eyes, feeling only a little guilty when his happy expression dims. “I had not thought you, as a king, would have any need to court a princess. You have titles and power enough as it is, Eomer--”

His face is stony now, though his hand remains around her smaller one. “I do not do this because you are a princess,” he says, and there it is again, that anger he’s so known for, “I do it because you are _you_ , Lothiriel.”

 _Oh_ , she thinks, even as he drops her hand, leaving her standing behind the column with cheeks flushed and stomach churning, with guilt and butterflies alike.

“Whatever have you done to poor Eomer?” Geldis asks, appearing at her side.

 _Something foolish,_ she thinks, _something stubborn_.

“Lost a battle, I think,” she murmurs.

She hopes, abruptly, that she will not lose the war.

 

* * *

 

What seems like a lifetime--and yet a blink, all at once--later, Lothiriel finds herself curled under the warm furs of her bed in Edoras.

Well, hers and her _husband’s_ bed, which is still a concept so novel that she’s taken to pinching herself, at least once daily, to make sure she isn’t dreaming.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” comes a familiar voice. Said voice is accompanied by a warm and heavy arm, wrapping around her middle and pulling her firmly back against an equally warm, broad chest.

“I am sorry,” she murmurs, smiling softly at the sudden press of Eomer’s mouth to the line of her neck .

“You needn’t be,” he says, threading his fingers through hers, “if you tell me what has so captured your attention.”

“I was thinking of something I said to Lord Iaeon, once,” Lothiriel replies, smirking slightly at Eomer’s groan.

“How can you think of that _wyrm_ , here, now, in our bed?”

“I have good reason, I promise.”

“Then explain,” Eomer orders, abruptly tugging her to face him.

She smiles, reaching up to trace the curve of his lips, the line of his jaw. So familiar now, so dear. She can’t help but kiss him, even as Eomer makes a noise of mock-protest against her mouth.

“Lothiriel, do not distract me,” he grumbles.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, mostly meaning it. “Do you remember the night you started to court me?”

“How could I forget?” Eomer asks, running a lazy hand along her spine. “I nearly murdered that prissy Gondorian lord in Aragorn’s nicest ballroom, for daring to lay hands on you--”

“I know,” she says, “but I do not think I ever told you the reason why he was so angry.”

Eomer arches an eyebrow at her, clearly waiting for her to continue. She presses closer--she has still not adjusted to Rohan’s colder seasons and is happy to use them as an excuse to be nearer to him, always--and hums happily when he drops a kiss to her forehead. “Let me give you two pieces of Dol Amrothian wisdom, Eomer King. One that I gave to Lord Iaeon, and one that I have saved just for you.”

His hand comes up to cradle her cheek. It’s as warm and calloused as it was, for that first kiss, and she wonders how she ever could have doubted him. Doubted this.

“Lothiriel,” he says, fondness in his eyes undermined by his tone, “I will remind you, I am not known for my patience.”

“Mm,” she hums, leaning close to brush one more kiss against his mouth, “what I told Lord Iaeon is this: no matter how the wind howls, the mountain will not bow to it.”

She feels, rather than sees, his jaw tighten.

“And what I will tell you,” Lothiriel murmurs, cradling his jaw with her hand, soothing it with her fingers, “is that despite this, the mountain can _meet_ the sea. And does so, happily.”

He huffs a laugh, pressing his forehead against hers. “You Dol Amrothians and your sayings--”

Frowning, she swats his shoulder. “This is supposed to be a romantic moment, you--”

He kisses her before she can truly be upset, hands sliding into her hair with well-practiced ease.

“I am glad you chose the sea,” Eomer says, voice low.

“Well,” Lothiriel says, smiling despite the absurd press of tears behind her eyes, “I _am_ Dol Amrothian, after all. It was never a choice.” More seriously, she takes his face in her hands. “Do you understand, Eomer? There was _never_ a choice.”

 

* * *

 

They are, unsurprisingly, very late to rise the next morning.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> the inspiration for this can be found here: http://heckofabecca.tumblr.com/post/176239343322/i-know-im-being-greedy-so-dont-feel-obligated


End file.
